


hurricane drunk

by openended



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003), Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alcohol, Crossover, F/F, Pilots, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openended/pseuds/openended
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>she tastes whiskey and her own desperation mirrored back on her tongue</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	hurricane drunk

It’s the fourth time Kara’s watched gun footage of Carter’s test flight.

Carter’s good. _Really_ good, though Kara’d never admit that to anyone. She takes another swig straight from the bottle and starts the footage over again. They’d picked Carter up on the algae planet, completely unable (though Kara’s willing to bet a few cigars that _unwilling_ is more accurate) to explain how she’d gotten there, and the admiral had immediately assigned her to flight as soon as it became clear that the woman knew her way around a cockpit.

It’s obvious that Carter started out flying in atmosphere, but she took to zero-g like a cat to a sunny spot on the floor. Kara snorts. Flexible thinking is a pre-req for flight school.

She sits up on the edge of her seat and secretly wonders if Carter did something to her Viper to make it do _that_. Kara’s belief that she’s better than everyone else isn’t wholly unwarranted but it still took her a year of flying (and learning how to tune out everyone trying to backseat fly over the comms) to make love to the controls like that, knowing exactly when to roll to keep the wings from clipping an asteroid or how to flip over end-to-end and blast a target into oblivion. And the Viper’s reactions are too smooth, too natural, almost as if it’s an extension of Carter herself.

There’s been a lot of talk about the final five lately and sometimes Kara wonders if she’s one herself, or if this newcomer is one of them. Maybe both. She rolls her eyes. 

“So did I make the cut?”

Her voice is smooth, confident, daring Kara to argue.

And the truth is, even if Kara _wasn’t_ this impressed with Carter’s flying, they need the pilots. “You need a call sign,” she says by way of an affirmative answer.

Sam sits next to Kara and plucks the bottle out of her hand. She takes a long swallow. “Later,” Sam says after the footage has stopped and they’re both staring at a blank projector screen.

There’s a hint of invitation in the other woman’s voice. An invitation without strings, without husbands, without wives, without vows, and without messing anything up even more. 

She stands up and takes the bottle back from Carter and leads the way out of the room. The pilots’ quarters are abandoned for now and Kara sets her boots outside the door before pulling it shut. She turns back to face Carter and finds her standing in just a sports bra and unbuttoned pants, eyebrow raised as if asking if Kara’s going to join the party or not.

Kara pushes Carter up against the wall and tastes whiskey and her own desperation mirrored back on her tongue. Carter’s hands tug at her shirt and Kara blindly sets the bottle on a table before casting her shirt aside and from there it’s just instinct. They tumble onto Kara’s bed and then it’s only skin and gasps and moans.

Kara Thrace doesn’t know a godsdamn thing about Samantha Carter except that she’s a frakking good pilot.

That’s all she needs to know.

Samantha Carter doesn’t know a goddamn thing about Kara Thrace.

She doesn’t care.


End file.
